High School Reunion
by ScaryScarecrows
Summary: Sometimes the past comes back to haunt you. Other times, it comes back to kill you.
1. Chapter 1

AN: A general caveat emptor to the masses: if you clicked this seeking fluff, warm fuzzies, or kittens…click out now.

I enjoy humanizing Dr. Crane. It amuses me. But sometimes…sometimes -myself included-needs a reminder that he is not made of kittens. He probably doesn't even _like_ kittens.

There are ten chapters in all. Updates are Mondays and Wednesdays. Rating is for violence, human misery, language, potential misogynic behaviour…all that fun stuff.

**_And me._**

_So stop jabbering and get going._

* * *

Mark Nicholson had never been to Gotham before. As of now, it was looking like he would never leave it.

He'd come here partly for business, partly for pleasure. Now, though, he was hiding in a warehouse, listening to men unload crates of what were surely drugs.

_Can't even go to the bank anymore, Jesus Fucking Christ. What is wrong with this town?_

He'd been in the bank, minding his own business, when some nut wearing clown makeup had come in, opened fire, and demanded to know if anyone had seen Harvey Dent. Whoever this Dent guy was, Nicholson felt sorry for him. But only a little, because the clown had decided he had too many frown lines and had taken him outside to 'make him smile'. Nicholson was pretty sure that involved giving him scars like the loony in front of him.

He had been saved by the arrival of Gotham's police. Unfortunately, he'd gotten lost while making his hasty escape. Dammit.

"Will you hurry up?" a cold voice snapped. "Surely it doesn't take this long to move everything in. And don't drop that. If you do, you _will_ be **_sorry_**."

Whoever that was sounded like a royal asshole. Hopefully he wouldn't come over here.

"Sorry, boss."

Who was this guy? He didn't sound like the clown, but he didn't sound nice. If he could just get a good look…maybe he was just a jerkass conducting perfectly legitimate business.

"Hey, boss!"

That yell came from right behind him. Oh, no. No, no, no.

He was yanked up by his arms and carried to the middle of the floor. This warehouse looked like it had been abandoned for years. There was no way this was legal.

"We got ourselves a snitchbaby!"

"Fantastic, Richard." The cold voice sounded tired. Nicholson couldn't see who it was at first. "Bring him here."

He was dragged a little out of the way and dropped on the floor. Now he could see the owner of the voice.

It was a tall, thin man with dark hair and rimless glasses covering creepy blue eyes. It took him a few minutes to recognize those eyes. That was Jonathan Crane. This could either be very good or _very_ bad.

"Crane?"

The cold eyes shot to him and he had the nasty feeling that the man was looking inside his head.

"What were you doing over there?"

Crane didn't remember him. That was good.

"You don't remember me?"

"Why should I?"

"Mark Nicholson?"

It hit him that Crane might not be very happy with the memory. He had, after all, broken the guy's finger. He'd deserved it, but still…

"Oh, yes." Nicholson didn't like the sound of his voice. It had gone down to a very dangerous whisper. "I remember you quite well."

"Want us to take him out, Doc?"

Something told him that 'take him out' was a bad thing.

"No." Good. "Take him to my office, I'll be along shortly. If he causes any trouble, fetch Miss Richardson or myself and we will take care of it."

"Right-o, Doc."

Office? Miss Richardson? Oh, god, Crane really was a psycho! He'd thought there was something funny about the kid-it took _effort_ to get a peep out of him come seventh grade. And there was that incident with the razor…

He was so, so fucked.


	2. Chapter 2

AN: _Yes. Mr. Nicholson is an old classmate of mine. Few things make me happier than finding a hated enemy on my doorstep. Except, perhaps, getting to play with one of the readers… _Off-limits. _One of these days, the fourth wall will be gone and you will be sorry._

SwordStitcher-_Mr. Nicholson isn't. He's in my office, alternating between crying and calling me a sick bastard. I do wish they'd get a little more creative..._

Just-Me-and-My-Brain-**_*mad cackling* _**_Scarecrow has a point. We've only just begun. Oh, the fun we'll have...well, the fun I'll have._

* * *

That bastard left him in the white room for the rest of the day and most of the next one. By the time the sun set, he was starving, cold, and mad as hell. If Crane was planning on letting him starve to death…

There were voices outside the door and he strained to listen.

"Of all the…here? You're quite sure?"

"He knew me before I knew him."

"How interesting." That voice…he knew that voice from somewhere. "As much as I love you, you're a lousy host. Come along, we'll have to feed him."

The door swung open. Nicholson narrowed his eyes. He wasn't touching anything Crane gave him, and that was final.

His stomach growled in protest and he wished he could punch it and shut it up.

Crane came in, holding a briefcase in one hand. He was followed by a woman that Nicholson knew very well.

This couldn't be good.

"How are you?" Crane didn't really sound like he gave a fuck. "Comfortable, I hope?"

"You know damn well I'm not."

"Manners, Mr. Nicholson. I haven't done anything to you." The unspoken _yet_ hung in the air. "You, on the other hand…Kitty, I'm sure you remember him."

He'd brainwashed her! He had to have. There was no way a couple of remarks could drive her to this. All girls got comments on their boobs. Well, most. She should be grateful.

"Oh, yes."

There was a commotion outside and Crane frowned.

"Delays, delays…"

"I'll deal with that. Don't forget to feed him."

"Should I take him for a walk afterward?" Oh, Crane had developed a sense of humor! That was probably bad.

Kitty left and Crane settled onto the couch.

"You can sit down, you know."

"What do you want?"

"Is it so terrible to want to catch up with an old schoolmate?"

"Cut the crap."

Crane sighed and motioned to a chair.

"Sit down."

"No."

"Sit _down_, I said." Maybe it would best not to infuriate the madman. "Thank you."

"What do you want?"

"This is a very nice surprise." God, he missed the days where he could have the kid begging for mercy. "How have you been, Mr. Nicholson? Happy? Healthy?"

"Listen, Crane…"

"Answer my questions, please."

"And if I don't?"

"You will be **_sorry_**."

What had that been? He'd never known Crane to sound like that, never. He would play along, for his own safety.

"Divorced."

"That's a shame."

"Yeah." He looked around the room. It was stark and cold and he hated it. "What are you, a drug dealer?"

"Of sorts." He was admitting it? "What did you end up doing? I always thought you'd end up in professional sports."

"Injured my leg in college."

"I'm sorry." He didn't sound one bit sorry. "What _did_ you end up doing?"

"Stocks."

"How interesting."

What a nut.

"It's okay."

"So." God, did the guy ever _blink_? What did he have against blinking? "It's been a long time."

"Y-yeah."

"I don't expect you to remember everything." Wait, what? "Not at first. But you will."

"Remember?"

Crane opened his mouth and found himself interrupted by a sudden shriek from outside.

"You _what?"_ There was a nasty **thwacking** noise and Nicholson cringed. "Say that again." There was a low murmuring, interspersed with tears. _"_You...bloody..._idiot!"_ The **thwacking** noise came again. "Get him out of my sight. Put him in the laboratory."

Crane grinned. There was no trace of sanity in that grin.

"Sounds like somebody caused a problem." He leaned back and set his case on his lap. "What a tragedy. I hate to cut our meeting short so soon, but I have to deal with this." He looked excited-or as close as Crane could ever get to excitement-at the prospect.

"What about me?"

"Someone will bring you lunch."

He stood up and left the room, locking the door behind him.


	3. Chapter 3

AN: A word of advice: (re)read the miniarc starting with 'The Dark', and (re)read 'Prodigal Son', both located in _Phobias_. Then keep those in mind as we journey forward.

SwordStitcher-_Ah, t__he power of Lovecraft.__ You carry that around with you? It's very thick. Yes... Don't you have a subject to be working on? _

Just-Me-and-My-Brain-_He's not enjoying it all. What a tragedy. **Poor bastard. **Indeed. Let us have a moment of silence..._

jokergirl4ever-_Hm...on one hand, I do detest having an audience. On the other hand, it's always nice to watch people cringing in fear. Decisions, decisions..._

* * *

Two days of living on burnt toast and listening to the humdrum of Crane's men was starting to wear on Nicholson. Crane had not come back. The only person he'd seen was an eighteen year-old kid who brought him food twice a day.

He was beginning to be frightened.

Jonathan Crane may have been pathetic, and he may have been easy to snap into little pieces, but he was not stupid. Nicholson had to give the guy that much. He was clever and obviously fucked in the head, and those two together equaled Bad Things.

He tried the door again, hoping that the kid had forgotten to lock it. Of course he hadn't.

There was the sound of a key in the lock and Crane entered, holding his case.

"My apologies for not being able to entertain you." he said shortly. "Things have come up."

What sort of things? There was no way that the guy was involved in anything legal.

"I…"

"Something's been niggling at me since you came here." He took off his glasses. "What was that nickname you had for me in high school?"

Nickname? They'd had lots of nicknames for the guy…oh.

"Scarecrow?"

"That's the one." He opened his case. "I suppose I can thank you for giving me a name. Jonny-boy was all for calling me the straw-man."

O-kay…the third person talk was just a little creepy.

"Look, Crane…"

"Crane isn't here right now."

"Listen up, you sick, crazy bastard, my boss knows I'm…"

_Hissssss._

A white cloud distracted him. When he looked up again, Crane was gone. Standing in his place was a living scarecrow.

Worms and long-legged _things_ crawled in and out of its mouth, and blood was dripping down from its eyes.

Oh, god, this was no scarecrow! This was a fucking monster, straight out of hell to teach him a lesson! He knew he should have kept up with the church!

"O-our father, who art in He…"

The scarecrow began to laugh.

"Scream for me."

"Heaven, hallowed be…"

"I said **_scream_**!"

Dry, cracked hands-like dogs' feet!-closed around his throat.

"Are you afraid?" the cracked voice whispered. Through the haze of panic, Nicholson recognized Crane's voice, though horribly distorted.

"Crane?"

"How many times do I have to make this clear? My name is Scarecrow!" The dog-feet hands tightened, the nails digging into his skin.

He was going to die. He was going to be strangled by his psychotic ex-classmate and oh _god_…

He was released and promptly scrambled back, choking.

"You make me sick." Scarecrow rasped. "You make me absolutely sick."

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry…"

"Oh, you're not sorry. Not yet." He leaned down, drops of blood dripping onto Nicholson's hands. "Now." The mouth seemed to form a grin. "Scream for me."

Nicholson screamed.

* * *

"Are you going to lie on the floor all afternoon, or are you going to get up?"

That voice…

"You don't this is an allergic reaction, do you?"

"No, I think he's still dazed from his fall."

Fall? What fall?

"I'm not touching him."

"Oh, no, I wouldn't lay a hand on him."

Nicholson moaned and cracked his eyes open.

"There, see? Just fine. You fell and cracked your head on the coffee table." Crane said easily. "You never told me you were prone to seizures."

"Scarecrow…"

Something dangerous flashed in Crane's eyes and Nicholson fell silent.

"You had a fit. If your fits come with hallucinations, I know nothing about them."

That was no hallucination. That was real, and he knew it was real. Crane had done something to him, he knew it.

"Lying fucker."

"Resorting to vulgarity, are we?"

That smug little…

He aimed a punch at him and missed, but only barely.

"Jonathan, I think we should leave him alone." Jonathan? Who the hell was…oh. Right. "He's not in the mood for talking."

He felt a surge of gratitude towards Kitty. She was probably as much a captive as he was.

"Fine." Albeit with a little more pull on Crane. "Are you coming?"

"In a moment." She watched him leave before turning back to Nicholson.

"Thank you."

"You won't be thanking me for long." she said softly. "I can promise you that."

She turned and left, locking the door behind her. Nicholson pulled himself onto the couch, rubbing his head. When had she gotten on first-name terms with that creep? She'd been sweet, too, at first. A bit too wild for his tastes, but he could have gotten control of her eventually.

If they ever got out of this, he would work on that.


	4. Chapter 4

SwordStitcher-_I can drag things out when I feel the need for it. Truer words have never been spoken. What's that supposed to mean? Whatever you want it to mean. I'm just going to stop now. Probably for the best, love._

Just-Me-and-My-Brain-_I pity him if he hits on me. I don't. He should keep his mouth shut. Jonathan... What? People are idiots. They can't help it. They will learn. I'm not sure if I should be touched or concerned. Touched. Definitely touched._

* * *

Crane didn't come in that morning. Neither did the food-bringing kid. Instead it was Kitty, balancing a tray in her hands.

"Thanks."

"It's Robert's day off."

"So he makes you be the maid?"

"Oh, I volunteered. Eat up, you look terrible."

"Where's…um…"

"Jonathan's downstairs right now, working. Hurry up, I need to be down there helping."

"You don't have to do this."

"Do what, bring you food? If you're planning on starving yourself, we have a feeding tube about this big around." She measured. "I'll gladly shove it down your throat, don't you fret."

Dear god, he'd really gotten a foothold on the girl. Maybe he'd threatened to kill her parents or something if she didn't help him.

"Help him." he whispered. Kitty gave him an odd look.

"Why wouldn't I?"

"I-I…"

"You don't…oh, that's cute." She sat down. "You think he's brainwashed me or something, don't you?" Nicholson nodded mutely. "You'd be wrong."

Stockholm syndrome, then. He remembered reading about that in sophomore year.

"Kitty-cat…"

"Don't call me that." Now she just looked pissed. "You may have forgotten about it-it'd be just like you-but I still remember your attempted…_relations_ in the back hallway. If you're stupid enough to think I'd want anything to do with you after that, that's not my problem. Now hurry up and eat that or I _will_ bring in the feeding tube."

He remembered how big her hands had said it was and cringed. His mouth had never opened that wide. He wasn't a fag, after all.

"He's sick…"

"So they tell me. What does that make me, then?"

"Misguided."

It occurred to him that that might not be the best word to use, but it was too late now.

"No. It makes me a damn patient girlfriend. Now eat. Your. Breakfast."

He ate it without another word.

* * *

He had to get out of here. It had been three hours since breakfast and every little noise was making him jump. He needed to get out, come hell or high water. Death was better than waiting for Crane to come back.

He tried the door first-hey, you never knew-and found it locked. Fine. What about the window…there was no window. Damn.

"Crane!" he shouted. "Let me out! You can't keep me in here, you scrawny bastard!"

He pounded on the door and jumped up and down. Where the hell was he?

He was prepared to charge the door when it opened very softly.

"May I help you?"

"Let me out of here!"

"You're right." Huh. "Perhaps you should see the place. I'll call someone to show you around." Dammit, why did he have to sound so pleasant? That only made it worse!

"Um…"

"I insist. Someone will be here in five minutes to collect you. I suggest you make yourself…presentable."

Presentable? How? Why?

Never mind. He wasn't doing a thing. If Crane didn't like it, too bad.

Sure enough, the door opened five minutes later. A big man, much bigger than him, stood on the other side of it.

"Boss says to take ya around."

"Um…"

"So come on. And don't fuck with me, mac, or I'll turn ya over to _him_."

Him? What him? Never mind, he didn't want to know.

"Okay." he squeaked.

"Good boy."

They were on the staircase when they ran into Kitty. His new friend smacked him in the back of the head to make him look at the floor.

"Oh, showing him around, are you?"

"Yes, ma'm."

"Maybe you should show him the laboratory."

"Yes, ma'm. Did Doctor Crane want to see him?"

"I don't think so. Oh, two-oh-nine's been acting up, would you deal with him when you've got a moment?"

Two-oh-nine? Who-or what-was two-oh-nine?

"Sure thing, ma'm."

"Thank you. Pleasure seeing you again, Mr. Nicholson."

"What was with the smack?"

"Shut up, you."

"But…"

"Ya want your eyes removed? The Doc don't like ya too well as it is, don't give him an excuse."

Eyes removed? For what…oh. Jealous. Well, he almost couldn't blame him. He'd be jealous, too.

They began walking again, down into the main room.

"Um…"

"Shut up."

"Where am I going?"

"Where Miss Richardson said you'd go. To see Doctor Crane."

So Crane was a doctor now? What about the 'first do no harm'? Or was that only in movies?

"I don't wanna see Doctor Crane."

"That's normal." They stopped outside a heavy metal door and his companion knocked. "Hey, Doc! Someone to see ya!"

A minute later, the door swung open with a loud **cree-aa-k!** Nicholson cringed at the sight of the burlap mask.

"I am in the middle of something. What do you…oh. Bring him in."

"Sure thing, Mr. Scarecrow."

First it was Doc, then it was Mr. Scarecrow? What the fuck? Maybe he would have been better off with the clown.

The room had high ceilings and a cold cement floor. A handful of tables stood against the far wall, lined with bottles and notebooks. On the other side of the room was a metal folding chair with a person tied to it. They were gagged and blindfolded. What the hell?

"Crane…"

The guard smacked his head again.

"That's Scarecrow, stupid."

"Thank you, Theodore." Scarecrow purred. "Now. Mister Nicholson. How the hell are you? Comfy? Cozy?"

"You know I'm not, asshole."

"Your manners have not improved." He sounded a little put out. "No matter. You don't read the international news, do you?"

Of course not. Who had time for that?

"No."

"Of course you don't. Typical. Shame, that. If you did, you might have a better idea of what you're in for."

In for? What was he talking about?

"Huh?"

Scarecrow rubbed a spot between his eyes.

"Surrounded by idiots…hold him still."

He turned away and stalked towards the person in the chair. Once they were ungagged and the blindfold was removed, Nicholson could see it was a man.

"Gotham is a terrible vacation spot." Scarecrow called. "You're about to see why."

His arm came up and a soft mist floated towards the man's face. First there was a bout of coughing. Then the screams began.

"Doctor Crane, please!"

The Scarecrow began to cackle, a nasty, grating sound.

"There is no Crane…"

"They're all over me!"

"**_Only Scarecrow!"_**

Nicholson squeezed his eyes shut and wished that he could squeeze his ears shut, too.

"Get him out of here, Theodore."

He was dragged away, but it was a long time before the screaming faded.


	5. Chapter 5

SwordStitcher-_You're cute when you blush.__ I am not cute, and I am not blushing. Of course not. Kitty! Yes? Never mind... He really is cute when he blushes. Stop it!_

Just-Me-and-My-Brain-_It is, isn't it? The power of paranoia, of every **single thing the little fucker did coming back to haunt him...** _

Voodoo-Mutant-Child-_Oh, they never volunteer. I just assume they meant to. Kellen, Kellen...never met them. If they have the misfortune to knock on my door, I'll let you know._

* * *

Nicholson shoved the couch in front of the door and curled into a little ball. Crane was probably watching him, snickering at his misery. There had to be a camera in here somewhere, there had to be!

There! Nobody kept lamps like that.

**_SMASH!_**

There had to be more. He knew there had to be more. Like that picture on the wall!

**_SMASH!_**

No wires, no little chips. Oh, God…

_Our father, who art in heaven, hallowed by thy name…_

The doorknob rattled and the door tried to push inwards.

"What the…hey, boss!"

Heavy footsteps hurried away and Nicholson pushed the couch tighter against the door. This was the only way he could be safe. Surely the police would bust Crane sooner or later.

Hopefully, anyway.

"What seems to be the problem?"

"Little prick's blocked the door."

The doorknob rattled again.

"Mr. Nicholson, remove the blockade."

He said nothing. Maybe Crane would think he died or something.

"Mr. Nicholson."

"Want us to break the door down, boss?"

"I don't think we have a choice."

They were not getting in. They couldn't get in.

He grabbed a shard of the broken lamp and cut himself. There. Now he was ready. He wasn't going to end up like that guy in Crane's lab, not without a fight.

**BOOM.**

**BOOM.**

**SPLINTER.**

**CRASH!**

Oh, fuck.

Crane, the Scarecrow, whatever the fuck he called himself…was standing in his room. God help him.

"Um…"

"Oh, so now we can add property damage to your list of transgressions? How nice. Clean it up." he added to one of the men behind him. "And go ask Kitty to make him something to eat. _Nicely_."

The other man left and he plastered himself against the wall, trying to avoid those cold blue eyes. It felt as though Crane was looking inside his head. Maybe he was-he'd always been a freak.

"Well, well. Paranoid, are we? Looking for cameras, I presume." Oh, god, he really could read minds! "If I was going to place a camera in here, I'd use the vent." A cold smile flickered over his face. "Sit down."

"No."

"Sit **_down_**, I said."

He sat down. The man cleaning the broken glass didn't even look up. Crane sat down across from him just as Kitty came in with a bowl of soup.

"Thank you, Kitty."

"What happened?"

"Paranoid. You know how they get."

She handed him the soup and sat down on the arm of Crane's chair, her arms folded across his shoulders.

"Eat up." she said. "You look tired."

He had no desire to eat it, but he had the feeling they would make him.

It tasted normal. A little salty, but these canned chicken noodle soups were always a little salty.

"Wise decision. I always detest using the feeding tube. Such a hassle." He sighed and leaned back into the chair. "Since you apparently dislike your accommodations, I have had another room arranged for you. Camera-free, I promise." Something about that made Kitty smile. "You may move in by this evening."

Maybe he'd be able to get out of here, after all.

* * *

The room Crane had arranged for him was small, dark, and contained nothing but a bed. It wasn't even a decent bed-more of a camping cot. Nicholson thought this was bullshit.

Then again, he could be dead. A shitty cot was better than dead.

He sat down on the crappy cot and stared at the door. The only air vent in here was rusty with age. If he looked closely, he could see reddish stripes on the door and the walls. There was a white thing on the floor and he picked it up.

And promptly dropped it.

It was a human fingernail, snapped off at the base.

He wasn't getting out of here.


	6. Chapter 6

Voodoo-Mutant-Child-_Patience, child. Rushing things is never a good idea. Things don't have time to...build up. And they die faster. **And that ruins my fun!** We wouldn't want that, would we?_

SwordStitcher-_Don't encourage her. Don't be so dramatic, love. I'm not being dramatic...eyeballs, you say? They come out so easily. They bleed so much, though...ah, well. Such is life._

Just-Me-and-My-Brain-_Who...oh. Him. I should probably send someone down with food. You didn't feed him? I got busy! If he's gnawed his fingers off like the last one... I will laugh. Yeah, well..._

* * *

Nicholson lay on the bed. Something was scratching at the wall. The owner of the fingernail, maybe, or some other poor bastard that Crane had locked in here.

He had no idea what time it was. There had been a commotion upstairs earlier and now he was convinced that something had _happened_ to Crane and that he would never get out.

He hadn't been fed for who knew how long and he had ended up turning the corner into a bathroom. That had been…what? This morning? Or evening-there was no window here.

He buried his nose in the musty, moth-eaten sheet, hoping for some respite. Maybe he'd die of dehydration-wasn't that fast? Or not? God, how long had he been in here?

"Crane!" he shouted. "Let me out, you sick fuck!"

Maybe he could scrape his way out. It was worth a try. Better to bleed to death than to starve to death, forgotten in this cell.

He struggled out of bed and made his way to the door. It was made of heavy steel and the fingermarks on it hadn't even made a dent.

But he had to try.

He pressed his fingers against the dried blood and began to scrape. It didn't feel too bad at first-a little gritty, but not bad.

He pressed harder, digging his nails against the steel. _That_ hurt-a dull ache like he'd smashed his thumb with a hammer a few days ago.

Motherfucker.

"Crane!" he screamed again. "Open this door, you no good rotten bastard, open it now!"

He dug into the door again, feeling the gritty dried blood flaking off under his nails.

Then the door swung open.

Jonathan Crane-at least, he hoped it was Jonathan Crane-was standing there, looking rather perturbed.

"What is it."

Would it kill the guy to speak in something besides that soft monotone? Or to blink?

"Let me out."

"No." Maybe he could push his way out…no. No, too risky. Then whatever it was that was making the scratching in the walls would come out and get him. "I rather forgot about you, actually…ah, well. Fair's fair, I suppose. Didn't you once shove me in my locker-and lock me in-for three hours?"

They'd let him out eventually! Besides, they were only joking around. They never meant to _kill_ him.

Explaining that to Crane, however, was a terrible idea. It would only make him angry. He'd never had a sense of humor…

"Um…"

"I suppose you'll have to come out. Can't have vermin making a home in here." His upper lip curled. "I'll have someone fetch you later. I'm rather busy at the moment."

"No, wait…"

**SLAM.**

He stared at the heavy door. He was locked in again.

* * *

True to his word, Crane sent someone to collect him. He was locked in the office again.

It was clean in here now-no broken glass or anything on the floor. And it was daylight outside. The brightness hurt his eyes.

Oh, well. At least there was a bathroom in here, and that horrid scraping had stopped.

He sat down on the couch, fingering his dirty clothes and wondering how long he'd been here. Then the door opened.

It was only Kitty, carrying a tray in her hands. He watched her set it down before inching closer to it.

Soup again, vegetable this time. He took it without bitching-at least it was hot-and drank it. A few drops got onto the couch. Too bad. The couch was stained already.

"I don't like you very much." she said from the doorway. "I've seen the way you look at me. All locked up and facing certain death, and you're still getting ideas."

What did she know? He was a man, it wasn't his fault.

"You know what happens to people that get ideas about me, don't you?"

No, and why would he care?

She smiled at him, a real smile that reached her eyes.

It couldn't be good.

"They die, usually in horrible ways. One of them ripped his own tongue out, apparently. I wouldn't know, I wasn't there."

She was insane. Fucking insane.

"So I'd wipe your mind out right now. All I have to do is scream."

_Don't scream, don't scream._

"He'd believe anything I said. He's already looking for an excuse to get rid of you."

He already had one. The locker incident, that thing with the book, helping Sherry and Bo set up that phony date…

_Mother._

"Um…"

She took the bowl and he was quick to drop his eyes.

"Be good."

She gave him another genuine smile and left the room, locking the door behind her. He could hear her heels tap-tap-tapping down the hall for a minute, and then he was left alone with the rain beating on the window pane.


	7. Chapter 7

SwordStitcher-_I don't take their eyes out on purpose. More often than not, they claw them out of their own accord. I have yet to figure out why... Probably so they don't have to see anymore. That's why they make handcuffs._

Just-Me-and-My-Brain-_Don't give her any ideas! With her luck she'll get herself taken hostage. When has that ever happened? Twice! I didn't ask how many times, I asked when. I can't remember. Neither can I. Twice._

* * *

It was hot, too hot by far. He thought he might have a fever. Or was it his imagination?

The scraping had found him. He'd lain awake all last night, listening to the steady _skreee….skreee… _on the door and on the walls.

Kitty had not come back, and neither had Crane. The only person he'd seen for the last day or two was a boy who brought him food.

He was bored.

It was a weird feeling, to be bored and in extreme peril, but it was true. There was nothing to do in here except stare at the wall and pluck at the lint on the couch. If it was possible to go crazy from boredom, he was well on his way.

Why was it so hot? The window pane was freezing cold, so it wasn't hot outside. But god, in here…if it got any hotter, the walls would start to melt.

He peeled off his shirt and lay there, marinating in his own sweat. Blargh…hot…

There was a soft knock on the door before it opened. Who…oh. Crane.

He had his briefcase in his hand. Why the hell did he carry that thing everywhere?

"How are you?"

"It's hot in here." he grumbled. Crane raised an eyebrow.

"On the contrary, it is sixty-five degrees."

Bullshit. There was no way it was sixty-five degrees.

He didn't say anything. Crane closed the door-no bodyguards? That was interesting-and sat down in the armchair.

"Apart from the…heat…how are you feeling? Any headaches, nausea…" He licked his lips. "Hallucinations?"

"No."

"How interesting." He scribbled something in a little notebook. "You **_will_** tell me if you start experiencing any strange symptoms."

"Sure."

"Good." He clapped the book shut and patted Nicholson on the head. "You've been very cooperative. Perhaps I can release you in another day or two."

Or right now. He could take Crane, snap the little prick like a twig.

He sat up just as Crane stood up, his briefcase still in his hand.

"I wouldn't get any ideas if I were you." he said softly, adjusting his glasses. "You may think that we are still at Arlen High, but things have changed."

Yeah, right.

He lunged, intending to grab him and toss him into the wall like he had in the good old days, and…missed.

Somehow or other, Crane had dodged him and was now standing by the door, shaking his head.

"I did try to warn you."

All right, so he'd misjudged. It was this heat, that was all.

He got up, cracking his knuckles and trying to ignore the fact that he was not at all steady on his feet. He could take him now.

He hunkered down a bit, trying to stop the swaying, and measured the distance. Crane wasn't moving. He was just standing there like goddamn Satin. His face should have had a few more bruises on it.

He rushed forward, his legs wobbling badly beneath him, his hands outstretched to grab the cause of every awful thing that had happened lately.

He made contact with the door, not with Crane.

Oww…

His head throbbing, his vision double, he became aware that he was moving backwards. What…where…

"Things have changed, Mr. Nicholson." Crane said softly. "You won't get out of here alive. Do you know what I do for a living?"

No, why should he know or care?

He tried to say so, but all that would come out was a low, "Muh…"

"Of course you don't. You never were interested with the world outside." He stopped moving and found himself being kicked over. "I'm a scientist, Mr. Nicholson. I study fear. And you…you are now my experiment."

His glasses were gone and an absolutely _insane_ grin spread over his face. He opened his case and pulled out a burlap sack with stitching on it. What the hell…?

"The fact that that you are one of Jonny's greatest…friends…is just a bonus." He put the mask on and leaned down. The mask was horrible-the eyes were wonky and the mouth was stitched in what could have been a terrible frown or a horrible, mocking smile. "What do you fear, Mark?"

_YOU YOU GOD NO NO PLEASE!_

There was a hissing sound and a white gas drifted before his eyes. He coughed-hot, god, it was so hot in here-and blinked a few times.

The scarecrow laughed-a dry cackle that sounded more like a crow's caw than any human sound-and cocked its head.

**_"_****_What do you fear?"_**

He squeezed his eyes shut. Hot, so hot…

**_"_****_WHAT DO YOU FEAR!"_**

There was a crackling noise and he peeked. Oh, dear god.

The room was on fire. The scarecrow's mask was beginning to smolder and oh god, oh Jesus Christ somebody help the room was an _inferno…_

**_"_****_TELL ME!"_**

How could he not see?

"Fire!" he sobbed out. "Fire…please…"

The smoke crept into his lungs, burning and making him cough and sputter. He was going to die. He was going to die in this wretched little room with no company but a demon.

He couldn't breathe. Couldn't breathe, couldn't breathe, couldn't _breathe…_

The last thing he heard before passing out was that horrible, inhuman laughter.


	8. Chapter 8

SwordStitcher-_Very good. Seeing as I had such an...intense...experience with long-term exposure, I thought I'd try it on someone else-and try a new, ingestible form in the process. Usually it's very bitter, but so far he hasn't noticed anything._

* * *

He awoke on the couch, feeling dazed and ill. The heat had not subsided.

He was alone. The room looked the same as it always had. There was no sign that Crane-or that monster-had been there at all. Maybe he'd imagined it?

_"__Any…hallucinations?"_

He must have imagined it. He must have.

Oh, god, he was going crazy.

The door opened. It was Kitty this time, not the boy. He dropped his eyes for safety's sake-god dammit-and waited for her to set the bowl down and step away before looking up.

"I have a few questions for you." she said, sounding exactly like the nurse he'd had when he'd had his tonsils out. "Have you had any headaches, nausea, or hallucinations lately?"

Yes? No?

He shrugged and set to work on the sandwich.

"You'll have to answer, or I'll call Jonathan in instead."

So what? Let her. He didn't know and he didn't care.

"Maybe I'll even scream."

Never mind, he was suddenly feeling very cooperative.

"I don't think so." he said around the ham sandwich.

"Elaborate."

"I think I'm sick."

He must have been imagining the smug smirk that flitted across her face.

"Okay."

"No headaches, no nausea. But I don't if I've been having hallucinations or not. I can't tell."

"Idiot." she grumbled. "Every time…thank you very much, Mr. Nicholson. I'll take that, if you're through."

Bitch.

He glared at her and she paused.

Then she began to sniffle. Then…

"Get away from me, you sick freak!"

What?

"Take your hands off me!"

No…

"Let go of me!"

The door flung open revealing Crane and the two large henchmen.

"What's going on?"

Kitty flung herself at Crane, now actively sobbing, and stammered out, "He tried to attack me!"

"Is that so?"

That _bitch!_ How dare she?

Crane did not look pleased. Well, he never looked _pleased_, but…

_"__One of them ripped his own tongue out, apparently…"_

"How interesting." Kitty's sobs had diminished to shuddering little squeaks, but she hadn't let go of Crane. "Come on, Kitty."

That did it. He was never leaving here, not after that.

That bitch.

* * *

AN: _Her acting skills scare even me sometimes._

_They do?_

_Mm-hm._

_Not as badly as Mark Nicholson, though. God, his face…_

_Sometimes I wonder who's the sadistic one here._


	9. Chapter 9

AN: I get the feeling that Doctor Crane's office wallpaper looks like the rug in _The Shining_.

SwordStitcher-_Never, if I'm careful. And I'm always careful. Rubbish. Broken glass. Aside from that. There was that time that you weren't looking where you were going and walked into a door. I AM ALWAYS CAREFUL. Sure, love. Sure._

Emma-_One great reaction and they never let you forget it. Don't complain, at least they remember. Still. What about the time one of them impaled himself on a candlestick? God, that was a bloody mess..._

Just-Me-and-My-Brain-_DON'T. EVEN. GO. THERE. I was wondering, too... I knew you were faking. You did? Yes. You got there in record time. Long legs. **He panicked.** I did not! **Yes, you did.** I'm touched._

Cookie VanDeKamp-_Well, that isn't difficult. **FEAR ME! **Was that really necessary? **Yes.** Really? **Don't judge me! **Oh, I'm judging. **Fine. **No wonder they call me a lunatic... **You are.** I blame you._

* * *

Nobody came into the room for the next day and a half. No food, no water, no nothing. There wasn't even any sounds outside. The only sound was the soft _skreee…skreee… _that had been going on ever since he'd found that fingernail.

He tried talking to himself to drown it out, but eventually his voice got hoarse and he couldn't do it anymore.

Where was Crane? Why hadn't he come back?

He didn't want to rip his own tongue out, but even Crane was better than that horrible _skreee…skreee…_

God, he was hungry. Hungry and hot and more than a little afraid. What was making that goddamn noise? WHAT WAS MAKING THAT GODDAMN NOISE?

Never mind. It didn't matter. He would go to sleep and hope-like he'd hoped every night since he'd been brought here-that he would wake up and find that all of this had been a horrible nightmare.

He woke when the heat grew too much to bear. God, what was going on? Why was it so damn _hot_ in this room?

He cracked his eyes open and spotted a bowl of soup. It was too hot for soup, far too hot.

His stomach growled and he grabbed for the bowl anyone. Food…at last.

It was curiously salty and he wondered if he was being sentenced to a slow death by dehydration. Who cared? Food.

He finished it in minutes and curled up on the couch again, tasting salt in his mouth. Hot. Too hot.

He swallowed hard and closed his eyes. Sweat was dripping down his face.

Ugh…

He stripped completely and lay there, gasping and wishing he had a glass of ice water. Ice water…lemonade, maybe…iced tea…

_Stop it, Mark!_

He could almost taste it.

He fell asleep to the memory of air conditioning and ice cream.

He woke again when it was dark outside, the rain hammering the glass. The scraping sound had not stopped.

Wait.

Maybe it was the heat making him see things, but he would _swear_ that the walls were moving. It looked like they were…melting. Like a bowl of ice cream left out in the sun.

No way.

He rubbed his face against a pillow on the couch and looked again. No. The walls were melting. Just sinking down, down into a little mound of hexagonal wallpaper.

Was that a light behind the walls?

"Let me out!" He scrambled up and staggered to the door. "Let me out! Fire!"

The door was burning. Nobody came.

He had to get out. Had to.

Had to.

He dug his nails into the wood and scraped.


	10. Epilogue

SwordStitcher-_He was a fascinating study, but I don't have any more to learn from him. As I thought-a steady exposure results in gradual insanity._

Emma-_My dear child, wherever did you get the idea that I was 'nice'? **Must be those eyes of yours, Jon. **I should get contacts..._

APieceOfThePuzzle-_I did indeed. I was testing an ingestible form as well as long-term exposure. Both worked...well. Very well, as a matter of fact._

Just-Me-and-My-Brain-_I was not worried! Jonathan, you can't lie to save your life. I was not worried. If anything, I was worried that you had done something to him. Of course you were, love._

* * *

Jonathan Crane leaned over the still-twitching form of Mark Nicholson. His eyes were closed, his lips were moving but making no sound, and his fingernails had been ripped off.

He eyed the bloody streaks on the rug and sighed. He'd actually _liked_ that rug. Maybe he could take it to the dry-cleaner's…

"Fascinating." he said. "I think I can put this down as a success."

"Now what?"

"We throw him out. He's already bled all over my rug."

Nicholson moaned and his fingers tried to close.

"I think I'll be poisoning the candy this Halloween. Reece's. I hate Reece's."

He bent down and patted Nicholson on the head.

"That was very therapeutic." he continued, opening the door for her. "I should do it more often."

He scribbled a little note: _Deliver to Lieutenant Gordon, Gotham City Police Department._

"There." He got some duct tape and stuck it to Nicholson's back-ugh, human contact-before leaving the room. "They can deal with him."

Kitty shook her head. He pretended not to notice.

"You know, Kitty," he said, "revenge really is best served up cold."

THE END

AN: _So ends our little story. From what I hear, Mr. Nicholson is still confined at Arkham. I haven't seen him, but they do try to keep me away from the regular patients. Something about being a danger…as if. I am a doctor, after all. Should you choose to vacation here in Gotham, do drop in. Have a cup of tea. I'd love to meet you, find out what makes you __**scream**_**.**

**-**_Dr. Crane_


End file.
